


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by orphan_account



Series: Episode Tags [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 21:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Missandei and Grey Worm talk poetry.





	An Ever-Fixed Mark

Missandei is writing. Grey Worm sits on the edge of the bed and looks at her. She maintains a general's cool composure at all times, but he has learned to read her like a map, and it is here at her desk, making music out of High Valyrian while a candle burns low at her elbow, that she is at her happiest.

 

If he were a poet like her, he would compare her to something. He would praise her as she deserves. He is a soldier, though, and so he only watches her as he would watch the far horizon. 

 

After a nameless stretch of time, she lowers her pen and sighs.

 

“What are you writing?” he asks.

 

Her curls cast stark shadows on the lovely planes of her face. “A song.”

 

“A song?” Grey Worm wants to smile, but he fears it would do her insult. “A song of what?”

 

She tilts her head. A faint, displeased tug of her lips. A tiny sigh.

 

“I don’t know yet,” she admits. “Perhaps nothing. I–thought to put into words the conquest of Astapor, but I don’t believe I have it right.”

 

“I remember.” He could hardly forget. The fire in the sky. The thought of freedom, like a blade driven between his ribs. Missandei standing there beside their queen, stalwart as a soldier herself. “Would you sing me your song? When you are finished?”

 

She laughs. Her gaze makes his face grow hot. “Would you like that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Perhaps I have a terrible voice.”

 

“Perhaps you,” he says. Licks his lips. Orders, he can do. Speeches, even. But with her, words are unreliable beasts, the kind that kick and rear and run away just when he needs them. “perhaps you do not. Have a terrible voice.”

 

Her smile is fond, and she crosses the room to where he sits. He has enough time to worry that he is taking her from more valuable pursuits before she slides into his lap and his thoughts are scattered.

 

“Would you sing it with me?” she teases, kissing his brow, his forehead, the tip of his ear.

 

He breathes in the smell of her hair. She oils it with something sweet. A flower, he thinks. The kind that grow on sandy slopes outside the Bay.

 

“I cannot sing,” he says. “I am a soldier.”

 

She laughs, and kisses his lips this time.

 

“But you could try,” she insists.

 

Grey Worm smiles up at her, brushing a finger over her cheek. They are sailing north to an unknown fate. They are in a war for life itself. But in the darkness with Missandei and her inks, anything seems possible.

 

“Yes,” he says. “I could.”


End file.
